


A Whisper to the Dusk

by Villiers



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Game of Thrones - Freeform, a song of ice and fire - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2016-07-02
Packaged: 2018-07-19 16:42:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7369645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Villiers/pseuds/Villiers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She'd been to Winterfell exactly once before, when she was six and only knew life as a Mormont. It had been ruled by direwolves then. All that seemed a million years ago, walking through the threshold of the gates, clad in black plate armor engraved with golden roses; now a Tyrell in everything but name.</p><p>The great stone fortress was dressed differently, as well. All throughout the courtyard, the halls, even the walls outside now displayed the flayed man banner of House Bolton. Roose Bolton killed the direwolves and sat as Warden of the North. News that had reached the South reported that he'd also proclaimed himself King in the North, had taken a recently discovered Targaryen bastard as his Queen and, if the rumors were true, she had a dragon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Whisper to the Dusk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheRebelDread](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRebelDread/gifts).



She'd been to Winterfell exactly once before, when she was six and only knew life as a Mormont. It had been ruled by direwolves then. All that seemed a million years ago, walking through the threshold of the gates, clad in black plate armor engraved with golden roses; now a Tyrell in everything but name.

The great stone fortress was dressed differently, as well. All throughout the courtyard, the halls, even the walls outside now displayed the flayed man banner of House Bolton. Roose Bolton killed the direwolves and sat as Warden of the North. News that had reached the South reported that he'd also proclaimed himself King in the North, had taken a recently discovered Targaryen bastard as his Queen and, if the rumors were true, she had a dragon.

The man leading their group through the castle had remained silent, peering over his shoulder every now and then. His gaunt, bearded face held no expression but his eyes would scan them all individually, likely taking the measure of the lot of them.

"I don't like this. There are ghosts here. They're not happy with the new Lords or the fact that we've even come to speak to them." One of the men of her envoy whispered to her harshly, trying to keep a hint of bravery in his voice. He wasn't the most ripe apple in the Fossoway bunch, by either Red or Green standards; he was taller than her by almost a foot but out of armor he was soft in too many places to truly be considered a knight, especially in the head.

"The ghosts aren't who you should be wary of. You'd do well to keep your mouth shut while we're here. I've heard stories of what Lord Bolton's bastard does to people and I can't say I'd be overly upset if he were to take your tongue." Wylla whispered back, a smile tugging at her lips. The grave man leading them made a noise in the back of his throat that sounded dangerously close to a laugh.

In truth, she was more nervous than she'd like to admit. She'd spent the first half of her life on Bear Island, she knew the Northern ways were drastically different from the South, but the Boltons were a different breed of Northerner entirely. They were cunning, ruthless, methodical, and their support was absolutely vital if the Tyrells meant to stage a surprise coup against both the Lannisters and Faith Militant.

This plan had Lady Olenna's fingerprints all over it. She had no intentions of leaving her grandchildren to rot in cells underneath the sept and was even less inclined to consider clemency towards the Lannisters responsible for their being held at the mercy of a religious zealot. Her hand had been forced, the groundwork had been laid, and all that remained was to secure the support of the North. They couldn't move forward without it.

Their guide halted them just in front of the door to the Great Keep.

"Only you," he grunted, pointing at Wylla. "Lord Bolton doesn't deal with big groups."

A sense of dread settled among the rest of the her knights. Even big, dumb Fossoway had the mind to look worried, but none dared to speak in protest. Wylla glanced them over and nodded in reassurance, her own fear nagging at the back of her skull but this was no time to entertain it. The Boltons wouldn't have had them travel this far north from the Reach if they'd intended to slaughter them in the halls. Likely they saw opportunity for themselves in the matter. There was no choice but to trust in their own self interest.

The man pushed the door open, letting Wylla walk through. She took note of the dagger displayed plainly on his belt.

"The Lord and Lady of Winterfell will meet you before long." he spoke gruffly before pulling the door closed behind him.

Alone in the Great Keep, she let her eyes wander. She vaguely remembered the layout from when she'd visited as a girl, but the white direwolf banners were replaced with even more flayed men. Most notably, though, was the great stone throne with the wolves carved at it's sides was missing and in it's place now stood two wooden thrones, both lacquered black with the backs in the X-shape of the flaying crosses House Bolton was so notorious for utilizing. The only difference between them was in the throne on the left; the arms had been carved into dragon's claws. When she was here nearly a lifetime ago, there had been laughter, men drinking, women gossiping, children playing in the halls and the courtyard. But Winter had come, like the Wolf Lord had incessantly promised, not even bothering to spare him, and all that remained in it's wake was the distant sound of soldiers yelling, trading blows with blunted swords and spears on the training grounds. All of the Realm seemed to be at war, and Highgarden had also become much the same as this Bolton Winterfell; there was no laughter anymore, no merriment, no pleasure. Only preparation.

A sudden draft in the room drew her attention to the doorway behind the wooden thrones, her heart rate quickening in anticipation as she watched the new Lord of Winterfell enter the Keep from the innermost courtyard, followed by his wife, her face obscured by the hood of her black, ermine lined cloak, and the infamous bastard of Bolton who had only recently been legitimized for his father's part in overthrowing the Starks. He'd already been involved in one betrayal of a liege lord to further his House but Tywin Lannister was now dead and Lord Bolton owed nothing to the dowager queen, and even less to the gods forsaken Faith Militant as he and the majority of the Northern Houses still kept the Old Gods. The Tyrells could only hope he'd be just as apt to repeat once he'd tasted what they had to offer.

Wylla inhaled deeply, steeled herself, and stood straight with her hands clasped behind her back. She watched as the King and Queen in the North took their seats, the bastard standing at attention next to his father with a rather grim look about his face.

"On behalf of all of the North, I welcome you. May I introduce my wife, Saege Bolton, and my son, Ramsay Bolton," Roose Bolton greeted with no great deal of warmth but the faintest hint of a smile and a voice so low it nearly caused her flesh to break out into goosepimples. Ramsay practically beamed at being referred to as Roose's son and not his bastard, but his eyes still studied her warily.

"Lord Bolton, Lady Bolton, Lord Ramsay" she nodded the courtesy to all three of them, "I thank you for treating with me. Surely the North is as over-encumbered by war as we are in the South, and I imagine your time is scarce due to the need for constant preparation for the battles to come. I hope we both walk away from these negotiations with allies in opposite ends of the Realm. I believe we have much to gain from eachother."

Only after Wylla had finished speaking did the Dragon Queen take down her hood, and it was all she could do not to stare.

She was alarmingly beautiful in a classical, ethereal sort of way that was practically lost to time, though the woman didn't look to be much older than Wylla herself. Neither did she look like the Targaryens of fables with their silver hair and fair complexion. Her hair was almost the same shade of black as the fur of her cloak, her high features and the warm, honeyed tone of her skin looking closer to that of some of the Dornish travellers Wylla had encountered in her time, but even then, there was something different that she couldn't quite place. What stood out most, however, were her mismatched eyes. One violet eye and one gold, and both seeming to bore right through armor and flesh and bone, giving the impression they could see her very soul itself. They left no room for doubt; bastard or otherwise, she was the blood of the dragon.

"Go on, state your business." Lord Bolton prompted, keen, icy eyes having picked up on how she had been caught off guard. His face showed no sign of it but it amused him, she could tell.

"Your Grace, I've been sent at the behest of Lady Olenna to represent the voice and will of House Tyrell." Wylla regained composure quickly, the gravity of their situation and the necessity for making this alliance happen settling back in, and she could feel the weight of it in her chest.

"We had been informed of a Tyrell envoy travelling to the North, and we saw your golden rose banners, but you don't look to be from the Reach. What is your name?" Saege Bolton demanded of her, albeit gently, astutely observing the contrast in her face and the sigil she wore.

"My name is Wylla Mormont, Your Grace, originally of Bear Island, though it's been more than half my life since I've seen it last," she confessed, feeling the slightest sting of shame, but she'd grown accustomed to this question. "I was sent to live at Highgarden just after my tenth nameday. From then on I was raised as a Tyrell, which is why I'm standing here now. Lady Olenna trusted in sending no one other than me."

"They tell use we're to recieve a Tyrell yet they send a bear wearing a crown of flowers," Ramsay scoffed, glaring down at her from where he stood. "The Mormonts are one of the most staunchly, vilely traitorous Houses opposing my Lord Father's rule as King in the North. Why shouldn't we should send your head back to the bears as a message and the rest of you back to the South to atone for the insult?"

Wylla's blood ran cold but she forced herself to look into the boy's eyes, the exact same as his fathers, yet with a greater deal of malice. Her fists clenched behind her back, palms starting to sweat ever so slightly, but now was not the time to show fear.

"Hush now, Ramsay," Saege looked over to him, cooing as if she were a mother tending to her injured child, silencing him for the most part. "Forgive Ramsay, his father and I are still trying to instill in him the finer points of ruling. Such as mercy and understanding."

"You have my thanks, Your Grace. I'm wont to believe my head looks far better still attached to the rest of me," she smiled up at her, thinking again how Lady Bolton looked so out of place, despite the comfort and authority she obviously had in her position. Curiosity got the better of her. "Though I am wondering, and I mean no disrespect, but you don't look like the typical description of a Targaryen and judging from the looks of you, you couldn't have been born in the North."

Saege peered down at her with a look she couldn't quite figure out. Her gaze was beyond intense. Wylla feared for a moment that she'd offended her, could feel a nervous heat creeping up the back of her neck like dragon's fire, until she gave a prudent smile of her own and answered.

"My mother was a Dayne. I lived the first few years of my life at Starfall, in Dorne. I was forced to leave when I was very young. My dragon and I eventually found our way to the North. But where we are from or how we came to be here is not nearly as important in this matter as why we are here now."

Finally, it all fell into place; she was half Dayne, all the histories claimed House Dayne's ancestors came before even the First Men, traces of their ancient bloodline could be seen in all of their faces, and felt even more strongly in their presence. And she said it herself that she had a _dragon_. With both Dayne and Targaryen blood, everything about her emanated an undeniable sense of nobility and power. Wylla had spent half her life surrounded by women who proclaimed to be queens yet they held less than a fraction of the indomitable authenticity of this one.

"My Queen is a wise woman," Lord Bolton looked to his wife, giving her a modest smile. "I tend to agree. Let's hear it. What does House Tyrell propose?"

Wylla stood up straighter, posturing herself as confidently as possible. The time had come.

"Lord Bolton, we propose to divide the Seven Kingdoms into two separate entities. With a force of Tyrell swords at your back, we would aid you in securing your hold on the North and silencing any opposition who may challenge or question your legitimacy as King in the North. When the Northern Houses have settled under your rule, we ask you assist us in the sack of Kings Landing and depose both the Lannisters and the Faith Militant, who are responsible for the imprisonment of Ser Loras Tyrell and our own Queen Margaery. We would see them freed, returned safely to Highgarden, and the behaviors attributed to this group of zealots outlawed and made punishable by death. This disease cannot be allowed to spread, especially to the North where the Old Gods still rule, and make no mistake, the High Sparrow absolutely means to infest his lunacy throughout the entire Realm. After the throne has been seized from the Lannisters, the Tyrells will put it into law that the North and South are to be governed individually, with no interference from one another, but will remain allies in matters of the crown. Simply put, Lord Bolton, the Tyrells wish to help you take what is yours in exchange for you helping us take back what is ours."

"What you suggest would send the entire Realm into a state of chaos. House Tyrell is not as loved in the South as you'd have up believe and you'd have every Noble House at eachother's throats claiming the Southern crown. The gods only know how long it would take to adjust to this new way of rule, or how many would stand to oppose it, or how many would still be left alive to even rule." Lord Bolton pondered aloud. "My claim on the North is one thing but to stage an attack on the Iron Throne is another matter entirely. You'd have me risk my men for a Southern war?"

"With the combined forces of the Reach and the whole of the North, we outnumber the Lannisters two to one under even the most modest estimation and Tywin Lannister is not alive to lead their armies. If they're wise, they'll yield. If they're foolish enough to fight, they'll die. There are times when tradition is to be honored and there are times when blindly following tradition will lead us to the grave all the more quickly. You understand this, Lord Bolton, I presume you would not have proclaimed yourself King in the North if you did not. Whatever mess a separation throws the South into will then be only our problem to handle, not yours. The time for separation has been long overdue and the sooner the North and South are free to govern themselves, the sooner the lands will settle. And no part of the Realm, North or South, is safe so long as a Lion is allowed to stalk around any Throne Room. Let us help the rest of the Realm understand this need for independence, Lord Bolton. Together."

A silence that seemed to stretch for days fell upon them. Lord Bolton leaned against the back of his throne, contemplating the possibilities. Lady Bolton kept her eyes locked on Wylla as if she were trying to read her mind. Ramsay stood just as quiet, likely still imagining cutting her head off. Roose and Saege looked to eachother, a thought silently passing between their eyes that only they knew the meaning of.

Finally, the Dragon Queen spoke.

"My Lord Husband and I would like to discuss these matters between ourselves and set our own terms for negotiation. You and your men will be fed and housed here for as long as need be, and treated as our honored guests, so long as they behave according to Northern law," A wave of relief washed throughout Wylla's entire body so forcefully she almost felt she could cry. It was far from being solidified but she'd succeeded in the first step towards toppling one of the most powerful Houses in the Realm, freeing Loras and Margaery, and, even more severely, playing a small part in what could potentially be one of the biggest events in Westerosi history. 

"You will have a formal answer and our own demands to deliver to Highgarden within the fortnight. But for now, breathe easy. You have our attention, Wylla Mormont."

**Author's Note:**

> Done in response to an RP prompt to detail the first meeting between my muse and TheRebelDread's muse.


End file.
